Post Apocalyptic Seattle Novels & Stories

The fissure had long since closed over. People moved through it like any other street corner, but someone had lined the edge with white roses and small bouquets, and here and there were snacks and drinks left among them. I wasn't the only one who had lost someone that day. In the apocalypse, no one came through untouched. But it was over now. That was what mattered. I sniffled quietly, set my white roses down, then slipped the small pink backpack from my shoulder and left it there too. The wind moved through the trees. I crouched down and pressed my hand flat against the ground.

A killing machine like that could only be appeased, not provoked. Night fell like a giant black velvet cloth that slowly covered the entire city. Victor strolled leisurely towards Stanley's apartment. The entire apartment complex was filled with the smell of smoke. Metal debris scattered everywhere, but the surroundings were eerily quiet. The initial chaos of the apocalypse had mostly settled down. The unfortunate ones were dead, those who could hide already did, and the mechanical creatures had either been exterminated or were lurking in the shadows, waiting for their chance to strike. In fact, Victor had already spotted several mechanical creatures hiding in the darkness within the apartme

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I looked out at the apartment building in the distance. Flames were shooting into the sky, and faint screams carried through the air. Linda and Tyler had hidden from the zombies by climbing into a dumpster downstairs. They were curled up in the reeking trash, shivering as they fought over half a moldy bread roll someone had thrown away. Meanwhile, I took a sip of hot soup, warmth spreading through my whole body. This was what apocalypse life was supposed to feel like. Over the next three days, I followed Duke’s guidance and swept up supplies from nearly half the city.

"Lucas. initiate Protocol Black. Seal the subway access. Weld the manholes. And pour concrete into the storm drain exits." He looked at Emily. "We are burying him alive." Emily nodded. But as they walked out of the bunker, she felt a shiver run down her spine. The bond was humming, but it wasn't a happy sound. It was a warning. Something beneath the city had noticed them. And deep in the dark, wet tunnels under Seattle, a pair of red eyes opened in the gloom. Ryan Evans licked his lips, tasting the fear in the air. "Soon," the monster whispered.

"Nobody knows how long this smog will last. The authorities have taken a huge hit, too. I doubt they have the manpower to deal with abandoned properties anytime soon. You might as well stay here." The apocalypse was nothing like normal life. No one was filing death certificates or updating property records. Unless someone reported a house or the authorities launched an inspection, they had no way of knowing which properties had been abandoned. And inspections took manpower they simply didn't have. After the smog came acid rain. The disasters never gave anyone a chance to recover. That settled it for the others. "Alright. We'll sell our apartments too and use the money to buy glass." A volcan

At a time like this, anyone who dared to preach saintly nonsense could pack their bags and get the hell out immediately—no exceptions. Thankfully, even the most morally inclined among them—Heather and Cassandra—had only sighed without saying anything. That meant they had truly grasped the cruelty of the apocalypse and no longer held illusions about human nature. By afternoon, Ray saw people wrapped in thick quilts charging out of the residential complex. With no water from him, they had no choice but to gamble. But every nearby convenience store and supermarket had already been thoroughly looted by Ray—even the toilet paper was gone. They were doomed to find absolutely nothing.

Chapter 183: Third Person POV The man drove through Seattle's industrial district well past midnight, the area abandoned except for a few homeless encampments and the occasional security patrol that he'd learned to avoid years ago. This part of the city was perfect for meetings that needed to stay off the record, conversations that couldn't be traced, exchanges of information that would destroy powerful people if they ever saw daylight. He pulled into an abandoned warehouse, the same one they'd been using for months, and killed the engine.

Handwriting from twelve years ago — the strokes heavier than they were now, the flourishes drawn wide and loose, like someone who wasn't afraid of wasting paper. I turned to page twelve. A layout diagram of the bunker. Seven bunks, one incubation unit, the storeroom at the end of the hallway, the concrete-sealed door nearly two feet thick. In the bottom right corner of the diagram, a note in my own handwriting: "The apocalypse has to feel real. Push the heat up, make the water filthy — let the audience practically smell it. Rotate the insiders every season, keep one genuinely unwitting participant — protects the ratings." After "genuinely unwitting," there was a note in parentheses. Just one

​Vivian walked over to the primary console and brought up the sector map. ​The three-mile weather dome over the northern district was still flashing a stable, brilliant blue. But beyond the dome, the map was a blood-red nightmare. The coastal district was entirely gone, swallowed by fifty feet of black seawater. The commercial sectors were lighting up with critical failure alarms as the toxic gray fog began to dissolve the municipal infrastructure. ​The apocalypse hadn't waited for her thirty-day timeline. The cascade was happening now. ​Suddenly, the secondary monitor in the corner of the console flickered. A sharp, rhythmic ping echoed through the quiet room.

AUTHOR'S POV The pack hospital in Seattle felt more alive that morning. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, illuminating the clean white hallways. The smell of antiseptic mixed with the scent of pine trees from the forest outside. Birds chirped, as if joining in the celebration of the miracle that had happened the night before.